This is where I am since Mom died late in February. Griefland. If the Universe were designed by Disney, this would be the ticket you get when you enter the gate. It is a mandatory village with an inescapable personalized ride. I have been in line a long time, and now it is my turn to twist and turn at the whim of the winds.

Grief is like a tailored suit made specifically to hold us together. Because I feel atomized.

My Nana, my mother's mother, used to keep fine perfumes in bottles on her dressing table. These were called atomizers. When ladies of that day put on their perfume, they would squeeze a dainty bulb attached to the elegant bottle, and liquid would turn to mist.

This is how I am feeling physically. I can't see my face in the mirror, my handwriting is different. On the few times I've ventured out with friends, I've felt like getting into bar fights.

My home has turned into a hoarder's house of memories filled with boxes and boxes of family. I really do have a paper trail; all Mom's bankers' boxes of personal papers ring my dining room table, which is shingled in my specific system of writing thank you notes for condolence cards.

It's been a long road to even get even this far; to get back to you through my keyboard. It is my hope that we can get each other safely through Griefland to whatever is beyond.

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